


A Long Time Coming

by PutItBriefly



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Being really really excruciatingly terrible at it, F/M, Fingering, Oral Sex, pre-marital sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PutItBriefly/pseuds/PutItBriefly
Summary: Elizabeth Darcy's wedding night does not go according to plan.





	A Long Time Coming

On the seventh of October they applied to her parents for permission to marry. On the _sixth_ of October he had kissed her for the first time, and immediately thereafter kissed her so many successive times that to number them all was impossible. The first time his lips trailed over her jaw to explore the unexpectedly sensitive skin of her neck was the ninth, and the first time his hands found the courage to stroke her breasts was the twelfth. Perhaps he was feeling very bold that day or perhaps it was a coincidence, but it was also the first time he smoothed his palms over her behind.  
  
The twenty-fifth was the first day they absconded from her family to hide behind a locked door. It was the music room. She sat across his knees and he kissed her mouth, her throat, and her breasts. He discovered the precise shape of her thighs, kept her steady by splaying his hands on the small of her back, and encouraged her nipples to tighten. She spent these moments with her eyes shut and her mouth open—sometimes chasing more desperate kisses, sometimes releasing moans she knew she should have taken better care to suppress. In her pursuit of more of _him,_ she would occasionally open her eyes. To bask in his beauty was its own sort of pleasure; the noticeable swelling of his erection, its own kind of thrill. She felt it for the first time on the twenty-sixth, pressed hard against her belly while they were kissing in the still room.  
  
She was soon possessed of an unfathomable yearning for the mysterious entity which resided in his trousers and underwent such fascinating transformations. He did not permit the acquisition of that which so bewitched her until the fourth of November. She, on her knees; he, seated with his legs spread wide and the fall of his breeches let down. She greeted it with a kiss, then a swipe of her tongue. When she looked up at him, he was red in the face, sweat beading on his brow. His exp ****ression was one of hesitation and doubt, a lingering suspicion that what they were doing was somehow wrong or forbidden or ought not be done. But she had more kisses to give, and he refused none of them. His instrument was a shy soul; she could see it wished to hide from further scrutiny in her mouth. He muffled his moans as she experimented with her tongue, gripped the armrest of the sofa as she moved her head to-and-fro. She searched for his pleasure, and once she found it, swallowed the proof of her success.  
  
She attended to this peculiar occupation again on the seventh, the twelfth, the fourteenth, the eighteenth and the twenty-first of November.  
  
On the twenty-third, they were married.  
  
For eight and forty days, they had been forced to hide their dalliances, sneaking away to rooms wanted by no one else. No longer must their amorous desires be secret shames. Between a husband and wife, such feelings were expected. They were _blessed._ Never again must she draw up her bed shift and satisfy the desire he cultivated with her own slim, inadequate fingers.  
  
Her expectations for their wedding night, she thought, were reasonable. Marriage meant they could meet one another fully and freely. Their pleasure would be shared, their happiness complete.  
  
And yet…  
  
The much awaited consummation had been rather more like being opened, invaded, and torn apart. The instrument she had formerly been so fond of subjected her to a few sharp, jarring thrusts before its turgidity disappeared from whence it came. The entire enterprise lasted mere seconds.  
  
When it was over, he fell limp upon her, his face pressed into the crook of her shoulder. The weight of his body, the sting between her legs, the weight of her _disappointment_ —it was nearly more than she could bear.  
  
“Elizabeth, forgive me.”  
  
The kiss he pressed to her mouth was sloppy. He was contrite, but spent. She was awake, alert, haunted by a keen sense of having missed something. This kiss had not the impact his kisses usually did.  
  
A rain of kisses followed, laid on her neck and her cheek again and again. What of her he could reach, he kissed. “I have wanted you so long...you cannot know...how I dreamt of you, longed for you.”  
  
Did he think she did not dream of _him?_ Did he suppose she was never tormented by the boundlessness of her own desires?  
  
“I cannot bear it. I beg you to forgive me.”  
  
What was there to say? She could no more deny her husband the absolution he craved than she could understand how she had received pain and apologies instead of the pleasure she had anticipated.    
  
“My dearest, my wife, you must have your share of the satisfaction.”  
  
Such a vow was so precisely what the situation called for that she answered the next press of his lips with something a little more like her usual vigour.  
  
“My husband,” she returned with affection, “how do you mean?”  
  
“As you have used your mouth upon me so I shall use mine upon you.”  
  
With a fluttering, tremulous excitement, she obeyed his urgings to sit up, allowed him to peel away her chemise. Her bare back hit the pillows as she lay down again. She bit her lip when he kissed her neck. His lips trailed down her chest, his tongue teased her nipples. His teeth nipped lightly at the underside of her breast and her hips bucked in response.  
  
He kissed down her belly and when he finally arrived at his destination, her legs had long since fallen open. Her body thrummed with readiness and want. He had not yet lowered his mouth to the place where her need converged, but she was already panting. She was already twisting her fists in the bed clothes.  
  
He just _breathed_ on her.  
  
She looked down the length of her body, straining in the candlelight for a glimpse of his face between her legs. Her heart pounded with such force it surely leapt out from beneath her breastbone. He kissed one wet thigh, and she whimpered. He kissed the other, and she cried. Her pride was long gone. If he intended to wait until she begged him, she would willingly surrender.  
  
A low, shuddering moan escaped her throat at the first touch of his tongue to her labia. It was accompanied by the realization that a life she once thought so full truly had no purpose but to fill whatever time cannot be spent having a man devour one’s venerable monosyllable.  
  
Then, a rush of cold air.  
  
Darcy recoiled.  
  
“What?”  
  
He cleared his throat. “Ah...Elizabeth, apologies.”  
  
She was a wanton, lustful creature. Shameless in her nudity, her legs spread wide. The whole of her being had coalesced in one place, one wet and needy and empty place.  
  
“What are you apologising for?”  
  
“I can…” He shuddered. “I can taste my own leavings, Elizabeth.”  
  
“That _is_ where you left them!”  
  
He exhaled sharply. After a long pause, he said, “Elizabeth, I am sorry, but I _cannot.”_  
  
Neither the flavour nor texture of his leavings were particularly pleasant. She had had them on her own tongue a number of times. Six times. Three times per week, one might say, should one be inclined to find the average frequency of recurring events.  
  
She reached blindly for her discarded chemise. She was nude and used and wet with her own desperation and his pleasure and more than likely blood. Of these, one was easily repaired.  
  
“Elizabeth, please.”  
  
She would have begged. She would have _begged him_ to relieve her of the torment of wanting something so ineffable. Instead, she had heard him ask again and again for forgiveness for his failure to return the service she found so natural to provide to him. To fail to please him, to reject him, to turn away the offerings of his body—to do so would be unthinkable.  
  
Warm, thick fingers cupped her mound. She dropped her chemise. Without removing his hand, he gently lay down beside her. Quietly, he said, “It is not hopeless.” And his fingers, so much blunter and larger than her own, began to move.  
  
She said, “You are pinching.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
She squirmed. “You are doing it again.”  
  
His other hand smoothed sweaty hair from her forehead, cupped her cheek. In a low whisper, he admitted, “I am not practised at this.”  
  
Her heart swelled at the tiny admission he made in the dark. Vulnerability did not come easy to a man of his pride. Her husband was a man of the world. Even more than that, he was clever and wise, learned and experienced. She could never have anticipated that his fingers would not know how to exploit the sensitivities of a woman’s body. Now that she knew, they could learn together.  
  
But clearly not to-night.  
  
_“Stop.”_  
  
His clumsy hand withdrew and retreated to a safer home on her hip. She exhaled, a long, steady breath. They were perfectly matched. He had found his life’s companion in her—she was courageous and lively where he was cautious and steady. She had found her ideal mate in him. The absurdities and misunderstandings that so long stood between them and the happiness they knew together were gone. She accepted life would always present difficulties, but how could _this_ be one of them?  
  
He pressed his face into her neck. “Tell me. Tell me what I must do.”  
  
“Do you ever…?” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, worried it a bit with her teeth and released it. “Do you think of me when we are apart?”  
  
“Yes, always.”  
  
“I think of you.”  
  
“In that case, my failures in this regard must seem insurmountable to you.”  
  
He understood the manner in which she thought of him—good. He also understood how much greater her disappointment was in the face of so much anticipation. He deserved credit for that and she would give it to him.  
  
But he was also painting a dreary picture. Insurmountable! He would and must improve with practise. He had ample opportunities for practise. They had vowed to keep unto one another as long as they both lived.  
  
“Fear not,” she replied. “I have faith you may yet be taught.”  
  
He did not laugh or tease back. Earnestly, he said, _“Teach me.”_  
  
She reached for the hand on her hip, lifted it and straightened his fingers. They were longer and broader than her own. “I like your hands.”  
  
“Yet they do not please you.”  
  
Wryly, she admitted, “They do not take direction well.”  
  
“Perhaps a demonstration is in order.”  
  
Her nipples pebbled. Beneath her navel, her muscles clenched. Her tiny hands with their too delicate fingers crept down her belly, over her mound and rested on the wet apex of her thighs. She was not averse to touching herself. To do so in the presence of an audience was unexpectedly exciting.  
  
“Can you see me?”  
  
Had she not felt him shake his head against her shoulder, she would have questioned if he heard her. The question was too bashful and quiet. This required courage.  
  
As loudly, as steadily, as clearly as she could manage, she narrated. She told him how she touched her body. She told him about the pressure she liked, what she touched and when she moved away. How she did not pinch, but rub. She did not shy away from his leavings, but dipped her fingers inside the same sheath that once housed his penis for a few fleeting seconds. Her other hand flew to her chest to play with her breasts and pull on her nipples and she told him _that,_ too. And when she had no more words, just harsh breathing, his voice emerged again, thick and gravely this time.  
  
“Allow me.”  
  
“No.” Her voice sounded high and needy in her own ears. “Not yet.”  
  
He was rocking beside her. He was erect again, thrusting into his own hand. How she came to understand that through the haze of her own proximity to completion, she could not guess.  
  
He kissed her neck and begged, “Let me inside you,” and she was far, far too near satisfaction to permit him to disappoint her again.  
  
“No.”  
  
Her fingers moved frantically, desperate to push her over the edge. His hot mouth was open against her throat, the added stimulus of his tongue and teeth adding to the delirious riot of sensation. The hand not furiously pumping his own instrument covered her unattended breast.  
  
Against her skin, he grunted, “Take me in your mouth.”  
  
She craned her head against the pillows, exposing more of her throat. Without ever removing his lips, he climbed atop her, laving frenetic kisses on her skin. Her heels dug into the mattress. Her toes curled. Her back arched. And she said no words in reply to that last insupportable request because her orgasm had washed over her. Her mouth was open, not be filled by him, but to cry out her own pleasure.  
  
And sometime later, she lay limp on the mattress, her husband brushing tears from her cheeks.  
  
There was a layer of anxiety in his voice when he asked, “Is it always like that?”  
  
“No,” she mumbled weakly. “It has never been like that before.”  
  
He gathered her to him and held her as the last vestiges of unsteady weakness dissipated. His assistance had lent the act an intensity that pleasuring herself usually did not have. After spending some time in the haven of his arms, she noted that while he had been touching himself with her, he had not finished. He was still erect.  
  
In the dark, her saucy smile was wasted. Words would have to suffice. “I am in a more forgiving mood now, I think.”  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for A Happy Assembly's 2018 Ludicrously Bad Sex challenge.
> 
> Originally beta'd by FeliceB, Skydreamer, ClaireLily and SMAW. But I will confess to doing some edits to the 2018 version.


End file.
